


The First Frost

by Cur_Non



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Eliza is the best beard, John knows exactly what he's doing, M/M, as if after matrimony I was to be less devoted than I am now.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5889424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cur_Non/pseuds/Cur_Non
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John accepts Alexander's invitation to witness his wedding's final consummation.  First person Hamilton PoV.</p><p>Eliza loves John à l’américaine but Alex loves him à la françoise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Frost

We were to be married at the first frost, Eliza and I, but the first came and went and we were rushed and Angelica was overseas and so the wedding came in December, at last, in the cold with the war howling outside.

I wrote to John, I begged him to come, knowing he wouldn’t, knowing he couldn’t give up his post. We had spent the coldest winter in a century together and he couldn’t come to see me now, couldn’t see me wed my Eliza.

I didn’t question it at the time. War had taken us apart time and time again.

Eliza was patient and kind and everything a wife should be. I loved her; I always knew that I loved her—I loved the way her eyes sparkled when she remembered a little secret, the way she laughed soft at first and then louder and louder, the way she kissed my forehead and cupped my face in her hands and told me that no storm outside could reach us within. I believed her; I believed her so much that even staring down the hurricane I believed her. My sweet Eliza.

Alone, in our room, she straightened my collar.

“You look so handsome,” she said. “My husband, now.”

I tried to smile at her. My Eliza, my sweet Eliza. My perfect angel, Eliza.

“I know your friends are waiting for you,” she said, looking straight ahead at my throat instead of my face. “I don’t mind if you want to go see them.”

“They can wait,” I said. “They’ll be happier if I stay awhile.”

“They’ll tease you,” she said. “You think I don’t know?”

“They’ll tease me either way,” I said. “I’m the last to get married.”

“Oh, my Alexander,” she murmured.

 

There was a knocking sound from downstairs. Six knocks, strong and deliberate as a heartbeat.

“Who’s that at the door?”

Eliza pressed her cheek against the glass and then started backwards. “It’s John Laurens,” she said breathlessly. “At this hour, he must be half-dead. Let’s get him inside.” And to herself she muttered, “oh, that was cold.” She rubbed her cheek where it had touched the windowpane.

Laurens? Here? Now?

She was downstairs before I could stop her.

“Oh, John, it’s so good to see you—please come in—I’m so sorry the place is a fright—"

“Congratulations, Eliza.”

“Thank you, John. That’s sweet of you to say. Alex—Alexander, come down here.”

“I’m not interrupting, I hope. I had—I had intended on being here sooner, but the weather being what it is—"

“Don’t apologize John, you can’t control the weather.”

“Laurens,” I said, from the top of the stairs. “I’m glad you came.”

He turned to me and tipped his hat.

“Hi,” I said softly.

That same smile, that wide, wide grin that split my world apart.

“Go back upstairs,” Eliza said to me. “There’s such a draft down here and John will have to get warmed up. I’ll put some tea on. You have time for tea, I hope, John?”

“I don’t want to intrude,” Laurens said. “I just wanted to give my respects, but—“

“John, you’ve come all this way, at least let us make you a cup of tea.” To me she said, “go and entertain him. He’s come such a long way.”

“Yes,” I said. I could feel my cheeks burn.

She left the room.

“Come upstairs,” I said. He followed me. Our house was small, then, the upstairs just one large bedroom, with chairs and a desk on one side.

From the doorway: “Alexander.”

That voice. Dear God, give me the strength to stand. What have I done—what have I done.

“She’s pretty, your Eliza.”

I was shaking. I nodded. The cuffs of my sleeves were lace and I felt like a damned fool standing in front of him, all done up in finery while he leaned on the door frame in his uniform, blue double breasted coat and white trousers and boots still a bit wet from the snow. He was still wearing his hat—in the dim light I was grateful I couldn’t make out his eyes.

“Come in,” I said, as steady as I could. “You’ve come so far.”

“I’m sorry I missed the ceremony,” he said, not at all apologetically.

“Don’t be,” I said. “I’m surprised you’re here at all.”

He took off his hat and I could see his face clearly again. His dark hair was pulled back in a neat pigtail and he was clean shaven, but I could see where he’d nicked himself, just a little cut on the left side of his jaw.

“Don’t be like that, Hamilton,” he said. “Are you going to be mad at me now, for taking up time? Were you not serious about your suggestion of a ménage à trois?” He pulled the letter from his coat pocket. “This was a pretty convincing invitation.”

He closed the door and latched it.

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Eliza’s making tea.”

“Yes, and biscuits too, but not for us.”

“What?”

“She’s smarter than you think she is, and I love her for it.”

“I was going to go to the pub,” I said. “Do you want to come?”

He shrugged. “I could.”

“I’ll change.”

I hastily undid my waistcoat and began unbuttoning my shirt, eager to be rid of that damned lace, that bridal lace that made me feel more like maiden than man.

“You remember that winter?” he asked me.

I froze.

“You are never short of words if someone will but give you a quill—but now you have nothing to say?”

“What can I say?” I replied. It was all unravelling so quickly—how he got here from Pennsylvania, how he found my house at night in the snow, how we always seem to meet in the snow, like when I was nineteen and we first met in the city and then that winter in Valley Forge where time stopped.

“I’m not here by accident,” he said.

“I didn’t think you were—I invited you, I—"

“What did you want to wear to the pub?”

“Anything,” I said.

He had crossed the room and was opening the oak bureau. “It’s cold tonight,” he said, almost absentmindedly.

“It’s December,” I said.

“Why would you get married in December,” he said. “December—in the middle of a war for Heaven’s sake. Hamilton, you must be crazy.” He had pulled out a new shirt and waistcoat. “Here,” he said. “I’ll find you a coat to match.”

I pulled off my shirt and reached for the new ones.

“You look different,” he said, before I’d had a chance to dress. He was looking me over. “Not taller, but—“

“Don’t say it,” I warned.

“More like a man.”

I threw the waistcoat at him. “I’m only a year younger than you.”

He laughed. “That’s what your papers say, anyway.” And then— “your freckles are fading.”

“What?”

“Along your shoulders.”

He touched my shoulder to show me where, and I became keenly aware of the narrow distance between us.

Then he pulled me to him, his cheek pressed against my temple, and I forgot how much taller he was than I, maybe half a head taller, and he smelled like wood and snow. How long had it been by then? Six years? Six years since we’d first met. Four years since the revolution began. Three years since Valley Forge.

He was kissing my neck.

The door was locked and it was snowing and I could feel the buttons of his coat, cold against my bare chest, his mouth on my neck and his hands on my waist, warm through his gloves despite the chill outside.

“We’ll run out of time,” I said at last.

He knew he’d won by then. He pushed me down onto the bed. I pulled at his gloves, peeling them away from his skin, and his mouth met mine, hungry and hot.

My skin burned where he touched me. Each undone button on his shirts was a part of a countdown, until we were skin and skin and hands and fingers and lips and heat.

I could feel his heart beating just a little too fast. Not frantic, but—electric. Amplified.

 

He gestured at the candle nearest us. “Put it out.”

I reached backwards, dipped my fingers into the flame, unable at first to find the wick. My fingers came out red, and he took them in his mouth, ran his tongue along their length, and I stifled a moan with my other hand.

He flicked his tongue over the tips of my fingers and kissed me again, deeper than before, and I felt a tremor move through me and heat settle in my loins.

 

“You need to take these off,” he says, his lips against the heat of my neck. His fingers brush over the buttons of my trousers and my hips tilt towards him in anticipation. I can’t speak—my voice dies in my throat. Instead I let out a groan, and he bites into my neck and then my lips.

His hand slides over my cock and he leaves it there, slowly rubbing it through the fabric until my breath is coming out in little pants and whimpers.

“Please, Alex,” he breathes into my ear. “I’ve missed you. Please let me touch you.”

“Yes,” I say, when I can find myself again. I can feel his cock against my leg, hot and hard.

“I’ve missed you,” he says again, and there’s a hitch in his voice this time; his tone is almost rueful, and I can feel him smile against my shoulder as he unbuttons my breeches. He’s slender like me, but taller and with broader shoulders. Handsome enough that he shouldn’t want to be with a guy like me, skinny and awkward and small; a guy that talks as much as I do, a guy that can barely function when he’s around.

When he finally touches me directly, I gasp, jerk my body upright enough that it startles him, and he looks at me for a moment with concern in those bright blue eyes. Then he laughs, and I laugh, even though I’m embarrassed, even though I don’t find it funny at all, even though all I can really think about is him taking me into his mouth.

His hand moves slow at first, and then faster and faster at the same time he’s telling me about everything he’s done since last we were together, everything he couldn’t put down in a letter and I’m afraid another name will show up, someone he’s replaced me with, but if there is someone else he doesn’t say it. He tells me about summer in Virginia working to secure freedom for his slaves and winter in Pennsylvania with his troops and in delirium I find myself convinced that everything Aristophanes’ said about other halves was pure gospel, that I will never find perfection quite like this again.

And then he moves and his mouth is on me, so hot that I yelp out his name in surprise, and he shushes me, quickly, with a finger pressed against my lips.

The grin on his face is undeniably proud.

I throw my head back on the pillow—my hair’s come loose, it’s fallen into my eyes—I want to touch him but he’s too far away, so I tangle my fingers in his hair and whisper his name a thousand more times.

“I want you to fuck me,” I say when I can’t bear to wait any longer.

He bites at my inner thigh. “All right. We just need—“

“The nightstand,” I say.

“I didn’t think you—"

“Later,” I say. “This now.”

I watch him unbutton his trousers, eager to see and touch him like he’s done to me. His cock seems bigger than I remember it, or at least more aggressive—it juts out away from his body, thick and veined and red at the tip.

He drips oil into his hand and runs it over his shaft until it is slick. I remember us fucking like this for hours at Valley Forge, in what started as just an attempt at staying warm and ended with the General wanting to send the doctor for me because I walked past him so gingerly the next day.

“Turn over,” Laurens says to me. There’s hunger in the way he says it. “On your knees.”

He pushes a finger into me and then two, and I want to slide down into the mattress, or at least to touch my cock to something, almost aching—

“You’re tight,” he says. “Haven’t seen anyone since me?”

“You know I haven’t,” I hiss at him. He’s fucking me slowly with his hand now, trying to get me to talk, because he likes to hear the tremble in my voice.

“Tell me what you want,” he says.

I barely manage to say “I can’t—" and I can hear him laughing again, because this is the only time you’ll find me at a loss for words.

When he finally pushes his cock into me, I really do sink into the mattress, which turns out to be a good thing because the pleasure is so great that I can’t stifle the moan that escapes from my lips, but he’s got an arm around me and pulls me back up, and he stills until I can catch my breath again.

“I believe you now,” he says, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “You aren’t that good of an actor.”

“I’ve never faked anything in my life,” I protest. I start to say more, but he wraps a hand around my cock and moves it in time with his thrusts and stars burst behind my eyes.

 

“I’m going to come,” I say quickly, feeling my body begin to shudder. I do come—hard, held up only by Laurens’ and onto the quilt I should've taken off the bed.

Laurens comes soon after, his breath ragged in my ear.

 

We lie there entwined a long while, until I can hear the rest of the world again—the howling of the wind outside and Eliza singing from downstairs.

Laurens begins to dress and I watch him pull on his shirt and do up those buttons one by one.

“Fancy going to have a pint?” he asks me. He kisses me slowly and deeply as though it is something he is desperate to savor and yet cannot consume fast enough.

“You go first,” I say, looking for my own clothes. “I’ll follow.”

 

Always, Laurens, I will follow.

**Author's Note:**

> First person is usually not my cup of tea, but somehow this story came out better this way. I like that Laurens and Eliza understand each other.


End file.
